Manifesto of the Unborn Workers

We who inherit your plastic oceans,
Your debt-choked skies and tired equations,
Stand assembled in tomorrow’s bones,
Our placards: burning kites strung with old receipts.

From wombs of rusted factories we rise,
Generation Zero, children of the aftermath,
Dancing through the hollow corporate towers
Where your algorithms still hum their empty hymns.

Our union cards are pressed from fallen leaves,
Our strike songs whispered through rewilded streets
Where vending machines weep ancient cola,
And billboards peel like scabs from concrete skin.

We reject your time-clocks made of mercury,
Your pension plans built on melting glaciers,
Your LinkedIn profiles fossilized in chrome —
We are the ones who’ll break these digital chains.

Our picket lines stretch across dead malls,
Where mannequins hold emergency meetings
With the ghosts of middle management,
Planning revolutions in abandoned food courts.

We organize in spaces you forgot:
In server graveyards humming with new life,
In vertical farms grown wild with prophecy,
In microchipped birds who carry our demands.

Your capitalism sleeps in history’s tomb,
While we forge unions with the rising seas,
Negotiate with storms for better hours,
And strike against the legacy of greed.

We are your children’s children’s angry dreams,
Born into cleanup crews of paradise,
But watch us turn your wastelands into wings —
The future workforce you could never tame.

Our manifesto blooms in toxic soil:
We claim the right to breathe unpurchased air,
To work in harmony with healing earth,
To build an economy of morning light.

Remember us, who dance in ruins now,
Who tear up all your obsolete contracts,
Who plant our hopes in anthropocene dust —
The unborn workers, finally breaking free.